What did the sex of the person matter, after all? Her young male assistant, padding delicately around in his socks, showed us in, took the roses away, and whispered to us to wait in the living room. Thereafter, though they saw one another continually on campus, they barely spoke. These are writings Terry Castle is an esteemed literary critic, but this is a book of memoirs. I get those letters all the time, but I would never answer one! Includes one very uncomfortable dinner with Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson, Susan Sontag dodging imaginary sniper fire on a boutique street in Palo Alto, and one nude, very high and very handsome Art Pepper deliriously admiring himself in a mirror. Did you read Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963, which was published last year? As night advances and temperatures continue to fall — soon an hour will have gone by — the young people are obviously trying to keep warm by motoring round the tent at high speed and foisting their dainties on us every twenty seconds or so. Was the fact that she never mentioned, on any of the occasions we talked, her equally prominent female companion — they lived in the same Manhattan building — a sign of grande dame sophistication or some sort of weird test of my character? But the digital revolution has also opened up some striking new visual paths. I was absorbed by it, just mesmerized.
She was a troubled and brilliant American and never as good a friend as I wanted her to be. My little 19th-century optical toy from Paris: you crank a tiny lever and see a clown head, painted on glass, change expressions as if by magic. Still and all, Castle's goofy, self-deprecating style, while perhaps not worthy of the superlatives Dave Hickey piled on it in his Harper's Magazine review, can be really quite funny and endearing. Loud camera click, momentary blinding flash. This is a collection of essays that merge the scholarly and the personal in a way I wish more academic writing did -- or, more accurately, they show how the scholarly develops out of the personal.
You know they are not going away, that they are going to change everything. I also couldn't quite get past Castle's tone, the way she seemed to view herself. I found this book to be pretty disappointing. One comes into the tent to deliver her campaign speech. What are you talking about? Essays on Women and Sex 2002. The three of us think back nostalgically to two years ago when, in a similar state of exaltation, we saw Susan Boyle on her first American tour. It's weird how lowbrow her sense of humor is.
And yet in some way I felt the subject of female homosexuality — and whether she owed the world a statement on it — was an unresolved one for her. Her work clearly develops over the time period in which these pieces were written. I needed to shed my passivity; flirt, beguile and disarm with my charm and intelligence. Half an hour later, somewhat blowsily, Sontag finally emerged from a back room. You can read the essays in any order as they are not dependent on any other essay in the work. Although she seldom mentions us, she must know — we feel sure she must — that we constitute her major electoral stealth-weapon. The best memoir critique hybrid I have ever read.
The first debacle occurred after one of the films at the Japan Society. Like some frantic, dusty, overturned bug, I finally stop waving my many legs about and lie still. I began with the first essay in the book, Castle on her obsession with World War 1. This collection includes your famous piece on your friendship with Susan Sontag. As for choosing collage—I guess the short answer is that I never really did choose. The Professor and Other Writings, a collection of previously published essays and a new, jaw-dropping autobiographical piece about a lesbian affair in academia, is as inconsistent as such collections usually are.
She is a linguistic maverick; her every page is brimming with inventive prose. Her parents divorced in 1961, and her mother was persuaded by her parents to move back to England with her children. A lot of us, even in blogland, try to emulate other successful people as opposed to being ourselves. Interesting, thoughtful and funny throughout, the book's first half nonetheless feels like a clearing of the mental decks before getting down to the main work, the cathartic picking over the bones of her first love at thirty years' distance. Terry Castle's writing style is descriptive, delightful, a little off color, and amazingly witty. I sat at one end of the table like a piece of anti-matter.
Definitely part of the Coloring Books for Adults Demographic. Paglia and Castle are ambivalent—indebted, disappointed—before the doyenne of their style, Susan Sontag. Has any other major literary figure written such an excruciatingly turgid book? Wellesley, Bryn Mawr, Smith, Sarah Lawrence … The very names seem aphrodisiac, hallucinatory, like magic portents. Sontag was the Supremo and I the obsequious gofer. Dyke Drama has rarely been this well described. My memory has also been pleasantly jogged.
She had eight years of Freudian analysis. The Professor was one of the most twisted, realistic and uncomfortable things I've read in a while. Only Bev even has her trowel with her. I had come to New York with Blakey, and Sontag to whom I wanted proudly to display her said we could stop by her apartment one afternoon. How had I gotten so stupid? Beuys created multiple versions of the Felt Suit over his career; Number 87 can be found in Tate Modern.
Whatever it is, I think I might be one. She would never have a nap! She and Abramovic smothered one another in hugs and kisses. More odd shadowy forms — sniper-pigeons no doubt — flutter on the rooftops above us. But the main events, so long coming, are suddenly joy! Half the book is composed of shorter pieces about her obsession with World War I, her obsession with jazz saxophonist Art Pepper, her travels in Sicily, her obsession with Susan Sontag not the most flattering of portraits! You were part of it. Bag whipped away and invisible hands everywhere stroke your breasts and nipples.
Is this some kind of Rabelaisian list-making thing? She was too promiscuous, narcissistic, selfish, haughty, imperious and sarcastic to mother and love Castle. I adore Castle's irreverence and resistance to any dogma, her remarkable lack of sentimentality. Her mother took her back to England. The author obviously had to tell this story: it rushes out of her almost conversationally, with both passion and an awe at her own youthful naivete. Not to mention the usual klatsch of ruling-class hangers-on: radical Botoxers; Pilates Instructors for Peace and Zero Body Fat; members of the pedicure-rights community — all Teetering-for-Hillary in black sheath dresses and fuck-me pumps.